


Winged Cupid, Painted Blind

by jacksqueen16



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC is a destroyer of souls, Ficlet, Introspection, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Molly deserves better, Sherlock Loves John, The Final Problem, implied future relationship, johnlock if you squint, scene filler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9356525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksqueen16/pseuds/jacksqueen16
Summary: "They are just three smalls words, but he knows their weight now. They are a confession, the baring of a soul, and for some ridiculous reason, so much harder to say when they are true."Or, what was Sherlock thinking when he told Molly Hooper that he loved her? Implied Johnlock, and spoilers for "The Final Problem."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TC (thecollective)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/gifts).



> I will refrain from telling you what I think about "The Final Problem." Suffice it to say that I have lots of questions and so, so many plot bunnies for fanfiction.
> 
> Disclaimer: I ship both Johnlock and Sherlolly. I feel as though Molly Hooper deserves so much better than she's been given in the show. That being said, this is what I envisioned going through Sherlock's head during the "I love you" declaration. It is not meant as a slight to Molly or her feelings in any way. 
> 
> The title is taken from Shakespeare. “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind / And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.” 
> 
> I do not own Sherlock, Sherlock owns me. This has not been Brit-picked or beta'ed. All errors are mine.

_ “A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.” ― Elbert Hubbard _

* * *

 He must get the words out. He must get Molly to say them, or she will die.

He cannot imagine a world without Molly Hooper. Without her, the trajectory of his life would be different in countless ways. He isn’t lying when he says that they are friends. He may not have said it to her often enough, or ever at all—has he? He can’t remember—but it is undoubtedly true. 

They are just three small words, but he knows their weight now. They are a confession, the baring of a soul, and for some ridiculous reason, so much harder to say when they are true. 

She wants him to say it first. He tries. He does love her, but not in the way she wants or needs. It isn’t enough.

The clock keeps counting down. Moriarty’s voice is in his ear.  _ Tick, tock, tick, tock _ . 

He stares at the live video feed. Sees her hand shaking as she clutches her mobile. There are tears in her voice, and glistening in her eyes. She’s loved him for years, wished for him to see her the same way. He can't understand why.

He closes his eyes. He listens. He can hear Molly breathing over the line. Can detect the soft inhale and exhale of his sister as she watches the interaction, her fingers hovering over the button that triggers Moriarty’s recorded messages. The shifting of feet as Mycroft moves, unfailingly uncomfortable in the face of true emotion. 

And there. Just there. The steady breathing and heart beat and simple existence of John Watson. 

He knows it isn’t fair to Molly, not really, to imagine someone else entirely. But he can’t let her die, not after everything she’s done for him, not when she is good and pure and Rosie’s godmother and the best damn pathologist he’s ever met and his  _ friend _ . 

He hates himself for it, but he pictures John. Remembers their embrace only a few days before, thinks of John pressed against his chest. John in his chair—it would always be his chair, no matter who else sat there—and John in their kitchen making tea. John running beside him during cases, John writing up those ridiculous accounts of their adventures, John forgiving him time and time again and saving him, even when he didn’t deserve it. 

_ If we get out of this alive, I’ll say it to him, to his face. But in case we don’t… _

“I love you,” he tells Molly, not because he needs her to say it back, but because he wants her to know it. He wants everyone in the room to know that yes, he  _ is  _ capable of love. He wants John to know he loves him, and fuck, he even loves his brother, too. 

_ Sentiment. _

“I love you,” he says, filling the words with every fiber of his consciousness, every moment where he wanted nothing more than to touch John’s face, every time he felt vulnerable and lost, but somehow, never alone again. Not now, not ever. Not with John Watson by his side. 

“I love you,” Molly chokes out a whisper, and Sherlock is filled with relief. Behind him, John sighs when the counter stops with two seconds to spare. 

Sherlock looks at him, at his blogger, his partner in every way, and wonders if he knows. 


End file.
